<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Into the Storm by Hopetohell</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790300">Into the Storm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell'>Hopetohell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mission: Impossible (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood, Wounds, wound treatment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 03:21:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a story by @feralrunaway on tumblr. Rat could use a damn break once in a while. August is inscrutable as always.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Into the Storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s all trees until the view opens up and there’s a house and a lake, both long and low and grey and the moment her foot hits the porch it begins to rain </p>
<p>(It’s always fucking raining)</p>
<p>And yeah, it’s not much of a view when all she can see is water, sheeting off the eaves like the end of the world, trout jumping in the lake and </p>
<p>
  <em>Rat. </em>
</p>
<p>Is it? Nah, it couldn’t be. Not here, not now. Not when even the whispers have dried up.  And she shouldn’t be here— absolutely not, god, she should’ve been halfway home already (<em>home is where you wash your wounds) </em>but the deal went south; the buyer sent a proxy and the proxy didn’t make it and she should’ve known better than to wait around, should’ve booked it but it was only ten minutes (<em>and they’re always right on time; you were hopeful, weren’t you, lured by the promise of the payout)</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Now we can match, old man. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We’ll have matching graves if you don’t move your ass. </em>
</p>
<p>It’s the <em>drip drip drip </em>of blood down her collar and across the boards, into the house and that’ll be seventeen lumpy stitches in her hair but that part’s unimportant. It’s not like any of it is unfamiliar, not even the bright bloom of pain across her ribs and that’s gonna be a fun time to disinfect and wrap but at least when infection creeps in it takes a look at the moonshine splashed into her wounds and creeps back out again. It hurts like fuck and all that carefully crafted poise has long since gone out the window and her grunts and whines are nothing short of animal. </p>
<p>Not like anyone’s around to hear it; sometimes shadows move like men but it’s nothing til there’s a hand on her shoulder, faint and gentle and the rain is roaring now, a sound beyond sound that plugs her ears with all-encompassing white noise; she doesn’t dare to turn and in half a moment the touch is gone. </p>
<p>
  <em>Missed your chance. </em>
</p>
<p>There’s a doubling and tripling of sounds and shadows; rain is casting wet light across the walls and all of it is like being underwater; it’s like two minutes at the bottom of a swimming pool with the light refracting overhead; it’s like hiding behind the falls when all the hunters’ dogs are barking and maybe the ratters will find her out and maybe they won’t</p>
<p>
  <em>Moping isn’t your style. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Let me have this. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know you can do better. Cmon. Up. </em>
</p>
<p>(Maybe at one time the dogs would’ve been chased off by ol’ big-and-scary, but not now, not anymore, not since ten years running and when he said goodbye it wasn’t with words, it was with a nod and a twist of his lips and <em>fuck you, August, you owed me that much at least.)</em></p>
<p>The storm ebbs and flows and shadows play; hours pass one into the other and she’s lonely, here, sitting on the porch swing, but loneliness has ever been familiar. </p>
<p><em>Rat. Eat. </em>and she shuffles inside; there are little bits of this and that in the cupboard, enough for sandwiches; in the refrigerator there’s a raspberry mousse that somehow, impossibly, is like—<br/><em><br/>(Cmon. Try a bite. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>You’re meant to be watching. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I am. Our guy’s second from the left at the bar. Left side wallet, right side knife. Two more by the fountain, one in the men’s room. You need glasses, old timer? You’ve got to try this. It’s fantastic. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>...not bad.)</em>
</p>
<p><em>Must’ve been hungry. </em>The dish is empty, mousse long gone and it really was just the same, wasn’t it, tart and sweet and perfect. And outside rain falls; <em>Jesus, is it always fucking raining here? </em></p>
<p>
  <em>More or less. Now go to sleep. </em>
</p>
<p>Maybe night falls at some point. Maybe it doesn’t. At any rate the room is wan and grey when she awakes, light sliding down the walls and there’s a disturbance in the air, like someone moving from room to room.  When she rises, her toes curl upon the boards with the ache of fresh wounds but already she’s healing and a cautious hand in her hair says perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. </p>
<p>(It was, but you know.)</p>
<p>
  <em>Why are you here?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Why aren’t you?</em>
</p>
<p>It’s all softness and rain and the smell of coffee; the mug is warm and if it doesn’t drop from her hands when she sees him it’s only because the sight is an inevitability, the firing of the gun that hung over the mantel. His scars are deeper than she remembers, thick and red and <em>you’re not—</em></p>
<p><em>Nor are you. But we’re close enough. </em>There’s that wry twist to his mustache and </p>
<p>
  <em>When did you grow it back?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Always had it. But that’s not what you really want to ask. </em>
</p>
<p>He’s right (he usually is, damn it, despite everything). The question is an impossible question and the answer doesn’t bear thinking about. So instead they dance around it. </p>
<p>
  <em>How long will you be here?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Forever and a day, kid. But for you? Who knows. As long as you need me here. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Anyway I missed you. </em>
</p>
<p><em>Yeah, I know. And we— I— missed you too. But look at how you’ve grown. </em>It’s a slip, a little tell (a hint? He’s always had something extra up his sleeve). It’s a hand reaching through dark water and if she takes it— if she takes it—</p>
<p>His hand is warm and dry and almost familiar but for all its little ridged scars. </p>
<p>
  <em>You really want to know? You might not like it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah. Cmon. I’m not as delicate as all that. </em>
</p>
<p>He turns. She follows. And they walk into the storm.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>